No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (50 page)

Oliver, always more ready to defer to her than to Celia, agreed: Celia was not sure whether her prime emotion was gratitude or irritation.

Oliver was away for almost three weeks in New York that autumn: three wonderful weeks. Freed of criticism, of the daily discord, even of the daily deceit – although not of guilt, dear God, not of guilt – exploring Sebastian, exploring her increasing passion for him and his for her; discovering the intense, difficult happiness of adultery, Celia’s prime emotion as the three weeks drew to an end, was dread. Oliver wrote twice, cabled several times; he was having a good time he said, Robert was a marvellous host, Maud enchanting, and the Brewers had been particularly kind. Felicity had taken it upon herself to show him a New York he had never seen, the bohemian areas of Chelsea and the Village, the Seaport and of course the financial district.

‘Quite extraordinary, those buildings are incredible, the creations of giants, making small ants of us as we scurry about. And of course Robert is responsible for several of them: I feel greatly in awe of him suddenly. I can see where Felicity gets much of her inspiration from; she is so interesting about it all.’

At the weekend they had all gone out to stay in Robert’s house on Long Island. ‘Marvellous, endless sheets of white sand and rolling ocean. A little over-social for my taste. I kept thinking how you would have enjoyed it, and felt sad that you were not there. Indeed I wish now I had agreed that you should come; everyone has missed you, myself most of all. I shall bring you another time.’

‘I would much prefer that he didn’t,’ said Sebastian, kissing her, when she told him this.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘me too.’

‘Well, we have had our honeymoon,’ he said, and there was sadness in his eyes as he looked at her, ‘and now we must return to real life. I fear it will be more difficult. For both of us.’

‘I know it will,’ she said.

The night Oliver came home, she waited for him at the house; Daniels had gone to Southampton to meet him. She sat in the drawing-room, wearing a dress she knew he liked, his favourite dinner had been prepared for him by Cook, a bottle of his preferred Sancerre rested in an ice bucket in Brunson’s pantry. And Celia struggled to find some pleasure, some sweet anticipation somewhere, please please God somewhere, within her: and failed totally. As she heard the car, she flinched; as she walked down the stairs to greet him, she felt stiff with dread; as he waved from the bottom of the steps, ran up to greet her, she cringed. And watched the new, strange woman she had become smile, kiss him, put her arms round him, take his hand, lead him upstairs. That was the trick, she discovered; to watch herself. It made it all much easier. Not to feel, but to study how she felt, not to care, but to observe herself caring. That was how she could get through it. And he had changed. There was no doubt that it had done him good. He looked well, had put on weight, smiled more, told her she looked nice, that the wine was exactly right, the dinner delicious. He brought her a present from Tiffany’s.

‘I was told you would like that best.’

‘And who told you that Oliver?’ she said, smiling.

‘Oh everyone,’ he said, almost carefully vague, ‘open it, try it.’ It was beautiful, a fine gold bracelet, the clasp studded with diamonds; an extravagant present, something he would never normally buy her.

‘Oliver it’s lovely,’ she said, ‘thank you so much.’ And watched herself kiss him again.

‘I’m glad you like it. Tiffany’s is the most wonderful shop, with what seems like acres of counters, or rather glass cases, all filled with beautiful things. And this was the most beautiful of all.’

‘And did you choose it all by yourself?’ she asked, teasing him. He flushed.

‘Well – I had a little help.’

‘From Felicity, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ he said shortly, ‘yes, she did make a suggestion or two.’ He was clearly irritated; she supposed it was because she had teased him, implied that he couldn’t choose her a present without help.

There was a silence; then he said, ‘I did miss you, Celia, so much. It’s so good to be home’.

‘It’s good to have you home,’ she said. But she could not tell him she had missed him, could not get the words out.

After dinner they talked, he told her more about the trip, who he had seen, what he had done. ‘They are such hospitable, easy people. I can see why Robert likes it there so much.’

‘How is he? And Maud?’

‘Both well. The elder boy is still a problem, but they seldom see him. Maud is sweet. You’d like her. So would the twins. Well, they’ll all meet soon.’

‘And Lyttons New York?’

‘Doing very well. I’m delighted. Stuart Bailey is extremely clever. He’s found some remarkable new writers, I’ve brought some of the manuscripts back with me. You must read them.’

‘I’d like to,’ she said. ‘You don’t think Laurence Elliott is going to cause trouble with Lyttons do you? He does own a large percentage, as I recall.’

‘Forty-nine per cent. No, he hasn’t been near the place, apparently. I think it’s so far outside his area of expertise, he can’t really interfere.’

‘I don’t think that ever stopped anyone interfering in anything,’ said Celia drily.

And then it was time for bed; half afraid, she stood up, said, ‘You must be tired. I hope you sleep well.’

‘No, I’m not tired,’ he said, and his face was a mixture of emotion: tenderness, nervousness, and near-amusement. ‘I would like to come to your room. If I may.’

‘Of – of course you may,’ she said. Thinking that of all the things she had expected and worried over, this at least should have been spared her. And panic first hit her and then receded, as she reminded herself she had only to watch. She lay there, watching herself watching him as he climbed into bed, turned to her, took her in his arms. Watched herself lying there, hearing him tell her he loved her.

‘I have missed you so,’ he said. ‘I was wrong not to take you. It has made me realise what I have in you.’

He began to kiss her; and then very quietly, pulling away from her briefly, said: ‘I want you so much, Celia. So very much. But – help me. Help me, please.’

And then she watched herself again: and managed just a little more. But it was the hardest thing she had ever done.

Meridian
was to be published on December 1st, and there were to be subscription dinners, running right through November, when the bookshop proprietors in major cities were invited to dine with the publishers and the author, and then placed their orders.

‘We might even be able to increase the print order after that,’ Celia said to Sebastian. ‘And then Oliver is planning a wonderful dinner for you on publication day.’

‘I hope you will be there,’ he said, reaching out a finger, tracing the shape of her face.

‘Sebastian, don’t. Not here.’

She was terrified of any hint of their relationship coming out in the office; he was reckless, kicking the door closed behind him, producing flowers from behind his back, kissing her passionately as he leaned across the desk, sitting on one of the sofas watching her, and telling her he loved her. She sometimes feared he did it deliberately, hoping they would be caught, that their affair would come into the open. He took appalling risks.

‘Of course I’ll be at your dinner,’ she said now, ‘although at one point it was going to be at the Garrick and then, of course, I couldn’t. I made a huge fuss.’

‘Good. I would have refused to have gone otherwise.’

‘Well that would have been really tactful wouldn’t it? Anyway, it’s at Rules now.’

‘Rules! Our restaurant.’

‘Sebastian, it is not our restaurant. In fact I have rather unhappy memories of lunching with you there.’

‘Nonsense. That was where I learned that you loved me. Or rather that I might hope that you did.’

‘What absolute nonsense,’ she said, ‘I was simply furious with you, no more than that.’

‘And upset. And – well disturbed. I was hugely pleased,’ he added complacently.

Celia was silent; she was still troubled by his wife, not by her existence but by Sebastian’s extraordinary attitude towards her, his rather calculating assumption that there was nothing to be done about her.

‘She is perfectly happy with the status quo. She wouldn’t even mind about you, my darling. She has everything she wants from me.’

She was afraid, like all adulterous lovers, to ask whether or not he still slept with her; she told herself that of course he could not, that they must live like brother and sister.

In any case, she had no right even to inquire; there was Oliver, after all, and since he had come home, she had slept with him more than once. She had to. It was difficult: it got no easier, it was dreadful. She lay, submitting to him, trying to respond, usually managing it in the end wondering if he could in some way feel, tell a difference in her, in the way she moved, the way she was with him. And by sheer force of will she kept her mind closed to Sebastian, to being in bed with Sebastian, and his tumultuous, almost arrogant lovemaking, telling herself that until she had known him, certainly until the war, Oliver and she had been marvellously happy, that they had adored making love as they had adored one another, that it made no sense to set him aside however notionally. Sex with him must not become something inferior, a duty. It was different, that was all: and none the worse for it. None the worse for it at all.

The combination of guilt and happiness made her increasingly tender to Oliver: solicitous of his interminable minor illnesses, his faddiness over his food, his lack of energy. Although even that had eased since he had been in America.

‘I think perhaps you are an American manqué,’ she said to him, laughing one day, ‘like your brother. Perhaps you should go and live there.’

She even welcomed his endless criticism; recommenced now after the brief respite of his return. It helped in some strange way, made her feel less bad. There were days when she hardly felt guilty at all: days when she was particularly patient, especially generous – and welcomed him into her bed.

On other days, usually when she had been with Sebastian, not necessarily in bed, just listening to him, talking to him, making the kind of complex arrangements necessary to all lovers, thinking how much she loved him, how much she wanted him, comparing the monotone of her life before him with the dazzling brilliance of what she knew now, she felt dreadful, almost sick with it, ashamed of how she was behaving, how she was deceiving Oliver. She often thought of her mother these days, of her long-standing affair, of the explanation which had once so shocked her: that it did no harm, rather the reverse, provided that it was kept well contained, within the boundaries of marriage: and thought how what she was doing was worse. For this was not sex; this was love. Despite her refusal to admit it, she knew it to be so. She had taken the love which she had once felt for Oliver, just taken it from him and bestowed it upon Sebastian. Even though Oliver did not know, he must inevitably one day be the poorer for it.

They neither spoke of nor even acknowledged the future, she and Sebastian: they kept it at arm’s length, a dreadful, daunting prospect that must be faced one day. Like childbirth, the pain of it was inexorable, and unavoidable. Either Oliver must go through it, or Sebastian, and in either case then so must she. But for the time being, it did not exist for them, they would not allow it to; for the time being they were savouring what they had, and it was extraordinarily sweet.

‘And I would like you all to rise now and raise your glasses to
Meridian
.
Meridian
and Sebastian.’

‘
Meridian
! And Sebastian!’

The champagne glasses were raised, shining golden in the candlelight. Everyone clapped. And smiled. A small and most exclusive gathering: Celia, Oliver, James Sharpe, a couple of senior editors, LM, who had come up for the occasion, Gill Thomas, at Celia’s insistence, Paul Davis, behaving well for once.

Oliver raised his hand and said, ‘I don’t have very much to say about this book, except that it is undoubtedly one of Lyttons’ greats. A superb piece of work, imaginative, original, truly enchanting. All my own children are completely enthralled by it – and given their different ages, I think that tells its own story. The subscriptions have far exceeded what I had expected, and as a result we already have a second printing – bringing the total up to nine thousand, with an additional five hundred for the colonies. Many, many bookshops have ordered showcards, in itself a rare distinction. There is already an excitement about it and with good reason. You must have seen the interviews in the papers, not only the literary ones, but personal profiles of Sebastian in
The Times
and the
Daily Mail
. I am told by my wife that this is entirely due to Sebastian’s looks and charm, rather than to his literary skill; I am not sure whether he would wish to know that or not. All my colleagues in the trade envy me more than I can say. I am totally delighted and proud to be the publisher of
Meridian
, Sebastian, and I wish you every possible success. All I ask is that you write another book very soon.’

More applause. Sebastian stood up. He had come alone to the dinner, despite being instructed to bring a guest.

‘I can’t bring Millicent,’ he had said to Celia, ‘much as she would love it. Because of you.’

‘Oh Sebastian, don’t be absurd,’ she said, (bravely, for she had dreaded that he would do so, more than anything). ‘You must bring her, it’s her moment as well as yours, you said yourself she has supported you through the writing of it.’

‘I know. But I can’t. I couldn’t have you in the same room, I couldn’t bear it. Looking at her, knowing I was married to her, and then looking at you—’

‘But Oliver will be there.’

‘I can endure that,’ he said soberly, ‘I’m accustomed to that. And so must you be.’

‘My Lady,’ he said now, with a gentle bow to her, smiling, ‘Ladies and gentlemen. What can I say? I have dreamed of a night such as this. And yet never dreamed it would happen. I am so very delighted with everything, and Oliver, I have to say that being published by you is quite marvellous for me. For more reasons than one.’